


my love is such that rivers cannot quench...

by Kelly Melly (scarhett89)



Category: Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarhett89/pseuds/Kelly%20Melly
Summary: What if "that night" wasn't "that night"?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idreamofspring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamofspring/gifts).



> Hi all!
> 
> Here is a little short story. I started this a while ago and never finished. And then decided I wanted to try to get it out by Valentine's Day. Well…that didn't work out but better late than never, I suppose! I believe that this will be a one shot but I do have a little nugget of an idea for another chapter or two so if you would like to see more, let me know!
> 
> I also want to thank Elm for looking this over for me and for our many insightful discussions about these two lovebirds! You are the absolute best!
> 
> I want to dedicate this story to I Dream of Spring-for being my fanfiction pen pal in many-a-fandom (SOOO many fandoms! lol) and for prompting some themes found here through discussions about Rhett and the many other fictional characters which have captured our hearts!
> 
> Read and Review!
> 
> Disclaimer: it ain't mine. Just borrowing the characters for a while and I'll put them back when I'm finished. I also borrowed heavily from the book. So...yeah...

* * *

_If ever two were one, then surely we._

_If ever man were loved by wife, then thee._

_If ever wife was happy in a man,_

_Compare with me, ye women, if you can._

_I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,_

_Or all the riches that the East doth hold._

_My love is such that rivers cannot quench,_

_Nor ought but love from thee give recompense._

_Thy love is such I can no way repay;_

_The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray._

_Then while we live, in love let's so persever,_

_That when we live no more, we may live ever._

_-Anne Bradstreet, To My Dear and Loving Husband_

* * *

" _I should hate for him to ever turn completely loose in any way." But still the thought of the possibility teased her curiosity in an exciting way._

_-Gone with the Wind_

* * *

Rhett squinted against the new light of dawn streaming through the heavy curtains of their hotel room; attempted to lift his head but was met with a pulsing fury behind his eyes. Groaning softly, he settled back.

A pleasant weight was heavy on his chest.

His eyes popped open, heedless of the pain that assaulted his skull when the bright light overtook his vision. Blinking against the blinding white and glancing down, his heart stopped at the sight, in a way that would normally make him laugh loudly at himself for his sentimentality. His... _wife_ was sprawled over his chest, her petite feet tangled around his knees, her fingers knotted in his chest hair.

She was naked.

His cock twitched and he shifted his hips underneath her, suddenly very aware of her rounded breasts pressed into his side, the curls at the apex of her thighs tickling his hip. Scarlett didn't move. In these first weeks of marriage, Rhett had learned that she slept like the dead and even now he noticed a small puddle of spittle gathering on his chest just next to her open mouth and he huffed hoarsely in some semblance of an amused laugh, his chest tightening affectionately. He started to reach for her cheek, only to find his own hand was coiled around her dark locks at the base of her neck, the other hand was wedged under her hip. He wrapped his fingers around the curve of her pelvis, groaning huskily. It was a very pleasant way to wake up. Very pleasant indeed.

Then the memory of the previous night flooded his memory.

His whole body broke out into a cold sweat; his heart thudding so loudly that he worried it might wake her...

* * *

Frequently, when Scarlett lay drowsily in his arms with the moonlight streaming over the bed, he _knew_ , in the same vein with which he knew everything about her, that she was thinking of Ashley Wilkes. And yet his suspicions weren't truly confirmed until tonight, when she had turned from him, sighing towards the window, while he wrapped her impossibly silky hair around his throat.

To hang himself with, so it would seem.

_May God damn your cheating little soul to hell for all eternity!_

Scarlett had questioned him as he dressed, acting every bit the injured wife. An act that he would normally feel inclined to laugh at while mockingly commending her for her performance. But he didn't wish to laugh just now. He wished to get good and drunk.

He'd left the opulence of the hotel and walked briskly down the streets of New Orleans to the saloon of a friend—another business associate he had invested in after the war—and entered through the familiar back door. He was offered his typical room and a bottle, both of which he accepted. He was offered a girl. He declined. He knocked back three glasses in quick succession before leaning forward, his head in his hands.

His _wife_.

Rhett remembered that diverting remark, mentioned to Scarlett briefly but repeated in his own mind in the months before he finally carried her over the threshold, mocking his own optimism: "Did you ever in your novel reading come across the old situation of the disinterested wife falling in love with her own husband?"

He often thought of it because it amused him, even while the thought sent his fool's heart soaring. Rhett had devoted himself to doing anything to win her unassailable heart. It was blockaded tight but he would cheat, steal and extort if it meant breaking through.

He _wanted_ her. God, he did.

When he had proposed, he put particular emphasis on the marriage bed. He had enticed her with salacious talk and promises of "fun". Swept her off her feet with the considerable liberties he had taken. Scarlett had agreed to marry him and Rhett had kept his promise. They had fun. He'd spoiled her to excess, giving into her every desire. In return, she was now his, according to God and man. But Rhett quickly realized that a cold legal document and hollow vows did not a lover make. He had her body but what did that matter? He'd had many bodies. They were so easy to come by. If only it were that easy to obtain what he wanted. The girl who had been offered to him moments before—and even his marriage to Scarlett—was proof that he could have anybody he wanted, if he was willing to pay.

So then, what can be done when there isn't enough wealth in the world to buy what the heart desires?

As enticing as the woman could be, Scarlett's body wasn't a body so unlike the many he had bedded in his life. Fucking her was definitely a more discreet, tame experience than he had become accustomed to. It would be easier for him if he could say he was disappointed but, as sacharrine as the sentiment may be, the most innocuous encounter with his new bride was more erotic than any he had experienced before. Scarlett satisfied him in a way that he hadn't known was possible; in ways he worked to ensure she never realized.

And still, it was such an insufficient substitute to what he truly wanted to possess.

He wanted to delve deep; explore and discover and delight in that which was more sacred than anything her body alone could contain: her heart—her stubborn, little cherished heart. It was much more desirable and more difficult to come by. A hard truth to accept; one that was harder still to acknowledge in the face of his previously incautious confidence.

He had been so sure he could win her.

As Rhett had lifted Scarlett into the carriage and rode away from the church towards the National on their first night as man and wife, only minutes after being declared, he had watchfully, eagerly contemplated her bright eyes, her gleeful smile and felt that she was nearly his already. Had done the same thing many times since, so much so that now she seemed to have taken notice—commenting on his watchful gaze with some annoyance. He had often wondered if this new vivid contentment was because of him.

Of course it wasn't. Whatever had brightened her demeanor in recent days had nothing to do with him. What a blow that was when he had felt so certain in his ability to capture her affections.

Scarlett still belonged to Ashley Wilkes.

It drove him mad. Always Ashley. Always god-damned Ashley.

When he had first known Scarlett, it had amused him to no end that a young, beautiful, spirited little thing could pledge herself to this milksop of a man. It was a thought that had, in another life, brought him endless delight. It could make him laugh loudly into the quiet of his captain's quarters as he floated over the Atlantic, when he walked the streets of Amsterdam, Paris, London; when she was far away but never far from his thoughts.

Rhett had known she was obsessed but he thought it was a simple matter of girlhood infatuation. He had been proven wrong, of course. Many times over. But never more so than now, in the infancy of their marriage. He'd been unable to grasp how deep that obsession went. He felt a fear that cooled his blood when he considered that it may be an infatuation that rivaled his own. One so deeply rooted as to never be extracted; not without the destruction of everything in its path. The irony was brutal. Especially now, when she was his in every way but the one that he wanted.

When it was too late.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there in the darkened room; didn't consider it until he gripped his glass and reached for the bottle again, only to see that he had drained it. He stood on unsteady feet to retrieve another bottle, fully aware of the fact that he should stop while he was ahead. Sleep this off and go back to the suite in the morning.

He didn't.

Once he was out of the room, he found himself following the hallway to the back entrance, and was a moment later met with the thick, New Orleans night air.

Rhett slowly sauntered down the street, his steps becoming less sure as he drew closer to the hotel, the whiskey settling even more now. Time shifted and bent, as it did when one had drank too much, too quickly. As he walked down the lane, he felt as if it had been ages since he had seen his bride. Touched her hair. Skimmed his fingertips along the bow of her plush lips. The innumerable mysteries of _her,_ revealed to him in the past weeks, felt simultaneously miles away and mere steps from where he was currently standing, trying to walk as steadily as his drink would allow.

A jolt of longing cut through him and he found himself unconsciously walking faster. A longing to do what he hadn't been permitted to do in the past, when this need to be near her arose. Reach for her. Grip her between his hands and breathe in the air around her. Yes, it was a poor substitute for the reciprocation he desperately wanted but it was better than the alternative.

He'd had the alternative.

This was definitely better.

Bodies didn't matter, but it was _hers—_ he desired to know the placement of every freckle, every curve, every blemish. Rhett wanted to bury himself into those mysteries, flood her body with veritable rapture while he burrowed himself into a place carved out for him—only him!—nestled in the immeasurable depths of his beloved, where she is only entirely herself. He desired this with such profound intensity that he could almost believe that he had never wanted anything before wanting her. Hadn't understood the word at all.

In a moment of clarity, he realized that the whisky had taken hold so firmly that he was no longer thinking clearly. Only of what he desperately wanted and the only thing that came close…The moment passed and his thoughts spiraled again.

He passed a man and a woman on the street. The man's arms were wrapped tightly around the woman's waist. She might have been a whore but it didn't matter. The man gazed fixedly at her and she was staring back at him with some measure of longing. Or at least she seemed to be.

It was easy for yearning fingers to seize hold of any scrap of hope.

Oh, the sweet ecstasy of requited love! Such an undervalued commodity. What a simple gift! To be a man, walking into the doors of a bedroom, falling into the arms of a woman he wants, who wants him back. To never doubt that she is holding the one she loves, not imagining and dreaming of someone else's arms.

God-damned Ashley Wilkes.

He stepped jerkily onto the cobblestone walkway to the entrance of the hotel. His heart pounding from the whiskey-laden walk, racing with simmering, helpless rage.

He'd indeed fallen into her arms many times now and she hadn't reached back even as he delved deep—

The memory of her warmth made him dizzy.

As she had closed her eyes—whether in bliss or resignation he had never known, was too afraid to know—he had wondered, who it was she saw behind her fluttering lids and had known without needing confirmation.

It wasn't him.

A quiet resentment burned deeper, branching out with white hot fingers.

_May God damn your cheating little soul to hell for all eternity!_

He made his way to their rooms, the whiskey burning through his system in such a way that everything shifted and moved even when he stood still, loosening his grip on his own reasoning and judgment. With his restraint stripped away, he was left only with the discernible hopelessness of his situation. There was nothing to do but submit to the bitter hostility brought on by his impotence.

He thundered through the door and stalked into the sitting room of their suite before bursting through the door to their bedroom. It was dark which prompted him to sway precariously in the doorway, with no visible anchor for his spinning consciousness. He may have been fooled into believing that his bride was asleep, if not for the tiny gasp that emitted from beneath the covers as he entered. "Pray join me, Mrs. Butler."

He turned and made his way back into the sitting room, towards a small table that held the decanter, where he poured two glasses. When she still hadn't joined him after he'd discarded his coat, waistcoat and cravat on the back of a nearby chair, he swiftly entered the bedroom before ripping the blanket from her body and plucking her casually from the sheets, even as she gasped and flailed in astonishment.

In spite of his intoxication, he effortlessly carried her into the sitting room where he deposited her carelessly onto a chair. Swaying only slightly once she was no longer in his arms. She was defiant as he downed one of the glasses he had poured and offered the other to her. "I've taken the liberty of pouring you a drink."

She lifted her delicate chin. "I don't want a drink."

He sloshed it onto the sofa table before her. "Drink it, I say." She jumped at the command and hesitated only a moment before downing it with practiced ease. He didn't miss the gesture and he grinned down at the back of her head maliciously. She didn't turn around after placing the glass back on the table, only said, "You are drunk and I am going back to bed."

"I am very drunk and I plan to get still drunker before the evening is over. But you, my dear wife, are not going to bed. Not yet." He made his way to the sofa next to the chair that she was perched on and settled himself gracelessly onto it, placing the decanter and his glass on the sofa table before him. He stretched out his long legs before him, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt, loosening the oppressive collar. Scarlett sat across from him in an attempt at refinement in her newly purchased nightgown, chin lifted high and eyes aimed at the back of the room. He sipped from his cup, his eyes fastened on her, taking in the appealing picture she presented. What a good little Pharisee she was. Looked picturesque on the outside but lusted for another man in her heart...

He laughed suddenly and she jerked at the sound, turning her head to glare at him incredulously. "'Lusting in your heart'. That's a good phrase, isn't it? There are a number of good phrases in that Book, aren't there?" He chuckled again as he sipped from his glass.

Her brow furrowed. "I refuse to sit here and listen to your incoherent, drunken ramblings—" Scarlett stood but he was up and crouched over her in an instant, his hand wrapped around her shoulder before pushing her back into the chair with no effort.

"Yes, that Book does have many good phrases, though a heathen such as I would be typically loath to admit it. 'Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge'." He chuckled to himself, genuinely amused. "The bed undefiled..."

He could practically feel her embarrassment. "You—! Did you—?" She stopped, her cheeks burning but he knew what she was asking.

"Did I what? Stray from the bed to which I refer? Heavens, no! Though that's not to say I won't. Men are such crass creatures, Scarlett, but there is very little that would interest me in another bed. Don't blush, my dear. You wanted to know and I am assuring you that nothing could presently prompt me to defile that which God calls honorable." He leaned forward. "But what about you, dear heart? Would you cast me out in deference to your dreams of Ashley?" When she attempted to interrupt, he waved a hand and continued. "Spare me, my virtuous dove. We both know you are far from innocent so don't give yourself airs. Don't you suppose I know that you have lain in my arms and pretended I was Ashley Wilkes, even this very night?" Scarlett blanched and Rhett could see the pieces coming together for her. She had undoubtedly been perplexed by his current mood but everything seemed to have been clarified with that bit of bluntness. It had always taken something akin to the voice of God to get her attention, fiercely oblivious as she was. "Pleasant thing, that. Rather ghostly, in fact. Like having three in bed where there ought to be just two. Please, no, I am not interested in your denial, my dear. I know the truth better than you do."

Rhett watched with malicious amusement as she wavered, her jaw moving soundlessly. There was profound satisfaction in being proven right, even as something splintered at the confirmation...

The moonlight from the window reflected in her eyes, skimming over them like glass. So soft, they took his breath. Made him weak—loosened his tongue.

"How bad that makes me feel, dear heart! How it cuts me! To be cast out even as I lie next to you. And hell, I wouldn't begrudge him your body. I know how little bodies mean—especially women's bodies. But I do grudge him your heart and your dear, hard, unscrupulous, stubborn mind. He'll never want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body." Rhett made his way to the place behind her, leaning heavily over the back of the chair, his forearms wrapped around her shoulders. He had to lean very heavily on the back of the chair, unable to stabilize himself after quickly repositioning. "Tell me, darling, what if you hadn't just days ago pledged your eternal and unfaltering fidelity to me, Miss Melly were dead, and you had your precious Ashley? Do you think that you would be happy with him?" He paused, waiting for an answer. When none came, he asked again—softly, allowing the words to ghost across her skin and through the tendrils of hair at her nape. "Do you?"

She shivered before stiffening under his arms. "Take your hands off me. You are talking nonsense."

Rhett chuckled humorlessly, pulling away from her. "I've always admired your spirit, my dear. Never more than now, when you are cornered."

Scarlett stood, spinning around to face him, eyes sparking. She gripped her nightgown at the neck, her fingers shaking. "I'm not cornered and if you are trying to frighten me, you can't. I always knew you were a beast. You've been with bad women so long and lived in dirt so long they can't understand anything else." She pulled the robe tighter around her small frame. "I am going to bed. Good night." With that, she turned on her heel and trotted towards the bedroom door.

Her words ignited something in him and, swiftly, he was flying after her, turning her around and bending her over his arms as he dipped his hands beneath the fabric of her nightgown, hands scorching her bare skin. His body sang at the contact.

She was like a wildfire. All flames and destruction and heat. Brilliant and blinding. Seeking something to consume.

He longed to be found.

If only she would let him, he could love her as gently, as tenderly as ever a man loved a woman—

He kissed her.

He grasped her with a wild possessiveness; his arms quaking around her as he hummed against her slick, sweet tongue and trembled when she gasped against his. Oh, the intoxication of surrender, pressing her body against his, sending them both staggering gracelessly through the doors of the bedroom.

She resisted briefly. He felt it.

But mere seconds after this realization, the tension in her frame melted away and she folded into his arms, as limp as a ragdoll. Her lips moving beneath his, seemingly just as eager. His lips fell from hers onto her soft flesh, molding against the silk of her skin. When his tongue skimmed the edge of her collarbone, she gasped again, gripped his shoulders tightly and _leaned into his mouth._

How was it possible for such a creature to exist?

He groaned breathlessly before greedily seeking her lips again. She met him with equal fervor.

She was glorious.

Her little hands moved from their place on his shoulders and timidly skimmed the space between the open collar of his shirt. He hummed his approval and she jerked away.

_Please—_

Did he speak aloud? Perhaps—

He gripped her delicate wrist and gently placed her hands against his body again. She tentatively traced her fingertips over the expanse of his chest, laced her fingers into the tuft of hair there. He shivered violently, pressing his lips to her neck.

God, he really was lost to her, wasn't he?

The formidable thought broke the haze of drink for an instant and he felt real fear.

"Rhett…" Scarlett breathed against his cheek—a question. He looked down at her face, visibly flushed even in the soft pool of moonlight that cast the bedroom in a hazy glow. Whiskey took the edge off. The fear—that would have normally seized his chest, forcing him to pull away, to laugh, to mock in an effort to take back his control—dissipated into nothing. All that was left was an ache that left him defenseless.

Without thought, he fell into her again, sliding haphazard hands over her flushed skin. Unable to stop the torrent of confession, relief beyond belief at the release it gave, he didn't bother withholding anymore. As he led her to the bed, lowering her onto it, he told her he loved her. As he gently glided the nightgown from her shoulders down her hips, he kissed every inch; describing in vivid detail the delight he took in touching her, as to send any lady into vapors.

Of course, his _wife_ wasn't a lady.

She shifted—growing more restless even as his words became more salacious. He scrutinized her response, as he pushed boundaries. Teasing her nipple with his thumb. Skimming her stomach with his tongue and grazing her hipbone with his teeth. He gently pressed her legs apart, assuming she would resist as he placed a soothing but expectant kiss on the inside of her thigh. He had never attempted anything this intimate with her. Coward that he was, he had been afraid of the rejection. Afraid of the possibility of pleasuring her as she thought of Ashley.

He had underestimated her.

Something he was learning he did far too often, for better or worse.

 _Christ..._ she didn't resist and she was looking at him with absolute abandon. If there were any inhibitions left, they were deeply buried in desire. In this dark room, for the first time in their short marriage, pleasure could be sought with no reticence or reserve. As she sought it now.

With him.

His heart thumped against his chest. It was _him_ , wasn't it?

He felt the disconnect immediately. His stomach sank and he physically pulled back.

Her eyes—only moments before filled with eager curiosity—were now trained on him, uncertain. For the first time that night she gently tugged away from him.

His breath caught at the change and he splayed his hand along the expanse of her abdomen. She stilled, the moonlight accentuating her porcelain skin until it glowed. His heart clenched. She still looked doubtful—

He softly stroked the tender skin below her navel, gazing at her as his fingers moved lower. She dropped her head back onto the bed, her hips shifting to meet his caress.

He kissed just above the tussock of soft curls at her center. Her breath hitched and he bit back a groan in response.

Inching closer to her core, she writhed beneath him and he fell into her heat, pulling the pleasure from her. When she finally broke, she keened _his_ name; pulsing around his fingers as he slowly circled that bundle of nerves with his tongue.

He was dizzy. With whiskey and want. He ached for her.

He cast his shirt and trousers aside and he was between her legs, sliding into her slick heat.

He groaned as he slid deeper, could hear her equally enthusiastic approval somewhere outside of the roaring in his ears.

He could only focus on her warmth, wanting in. Wanting deeper. If he could get deep enough, maybe he would reach that part of her that had as of yet been unattainable. If he could nestle deep enough, he could make her care. He could carve out that spot he desired, bury himself there. Live and die there. He moved and her walls fluttered around him and he nearly came undone.

_Christ, not yet..._

He leaned over her, again aware of the fact that her eyes were closed. He wanted her to open them.

She did.

Such a stark green. Blazing. He watched her react to every thrust, every touch; each becoming more purposeful as she responded. An undeniably sensual groan ripped from her throat. He recognized his name among indistinct, whispered words.

He cradled her cheek in his hand, traced the top of her lips before leaning forward and capturing those lips with his own. Scarlett's breath hitched and her knees tightened around his thighs and he reached for her hips and plunged farther, desperate to grasp the edge of release. There was no more thought. There was only _his wife_ and her pliant body beneath his, coiling and writhing and rolling ever closer. Instinct thundered through his body, demanding satisfaction.

He gripped her thighs tightly, pulling her closer to his hips, tilting her pelvis instinctively to press deeper into her heat. Running his thumbs over her stomach, he continued his punishing rhythm, shifting one hand between her softness, mindlessly circling that tiny bundle of nerves. It only took a few strokes before she broke again, pulsing around him and forcefully compelling his own release. He panted breathlessly against her neck as he came back down, gripping her in his arms possessively.

After a few minutes, he kissed her gently before falling into her arms. She was warm and welcoming. His arms still wrapped around her, he rolled them both over, gathered the coverlet over their joined bodies and immediately passed out.

* * *

He needed to leave.

The events of the night before were muddled. He knew all too well how whiskey could twist the mind, bend memories at will. His head hurt like hell and his stomach was rolling. The icy cold tendrils of fear threading through his body were doing nothing to help his nausea. He turned his head and regretted it instantly. Pulsing, deep pain rattled his brain. He couldn't stifle a groan and in the silence of the room it might as well have been a train whistle.

Scarlett stirred, burrowing her nose into his chest before her eyes slowly slid open then popped wide.

Rhett stopped breathing, preparing himself for whatever was to come and warding off the nausea building in his throat. He was finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the pounding in his head.

She sat up swiftly, turning to meet his eyes. She seemed surprised to see him awake and her cheeks colored. She looked away quickly and made to look around the bright room for the clock, which read that they were waking well past the socially acceptable time.

When she looked at him again, he struggled to read her. He didn't know what to make of that. Surely it was just his state of mind that made her eyes look softer, lips gently tilted. "Good morning, Mrs. Butler." He stated, a hint of mockery in his tone.

Did her cheeks color further? She pulled the sheets up further on her chest. "Good morning." Her voice was hoarse with the morning and it sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

He waited a moment, expecting her to move. To swiftly gather up her tattered moral fabric before lighting away in a state of upset dignity. But she didn't move, her body suspended on her elbow and leaning over his torso in what appeared to be an uncomfortable position.

She seemed to be waiting.

Rhett swallowed, at a loss.

He was paralyzed with fear, unsure of how to move forward. He thought to lift her hand to his rough cheek but he remembered a time when he had done this very thing, only to be confronted with a broken dream. He felt panicked and irritable—a jeering remark about her performance the night before bubbling on the surface.

But he fought back the compulsion. His fool-hardy, sentimental inclinations niggling his conscience, giving him unsolicited optimism—that maybe he wasn't inflating the events of the night before. If even _one_ of the whiskey-infused memories were remembered with any accuracy, it gave him enough hope to live on for years to come.

She still hadn't moved and even in his current state he knew that they were standing on the outer edge of some tenuous penumbra, a fragile vulnerability sprouted between the two of them.

He wondered how to keep it.

Rhett breathed deeply, realizing that despite his uncertainty, his body's needs could no longer be ignored. He lifted himself slowly from the bed, his heart tugging as Scarlett recognized his intent and began to roll away from him. Before he could think to react, his hand shot out, gripping her arm, holding her in place. "A moment, my dear." He stated, his tone giving away none of his turmoil.

She looked at him with wide, shining eyes and his thumb faintly ghosted over the inside of her arm. An almost non-existent caress but one she must have taken note of—goosebumps breaking out over her arm. His heart thumped wildly as he slowly stroked her arm. He tried to meet her eyes but she was staring at his hand.

His courage tentatively grew in the face of her reception. Rhett gently guided her to lay back against the pillows, tucking the sheet around her shoulders. She didn't resist, finally meeting his eyes. He permitted himself a soft stroke of her cheek with his knuckles. With one last look he stood, unhindered by his own nudity, and left the room to take care of himself.

Moments later, he returned and she was still exactly where he had left her, staring at him over the cloud of blankets surrounding her.

Rhett was still as unsure of how to proceed as he had been when he left her there and he was losing some of the bravado he had mustered before leaving the room.

"Are you hungry?" His voice sounded confident. He wanted to reach out to her but couldn't bring himself to. He settled for resting his hand over the sheet, next to her arm, grazing it with his fingertips.

Scarlett cleared her throat. "Yes." He reached for his dressing gown, intent on fetching her a meal, perfectly happy to tuck into this realm of unknown for the time being until he could gain his bearings.

"Rhett—"

He halted, his palms instantly sweating. He finished draping his dressing gown over his bare shoulders before turning to her. He couldn't speak so he waited.

Scarlett stuttered momentarily. "Did you—last night—you—?"

He swallowed. "Yes?" Still waiting—half agony, half hope.*

"You said—." She looked down, fiddling with her fingers. "Last night, you said some...things."

"Did I?" He asked, an absurd measure of inquiry in his tone.

She looked up at him, fixing him with her gaze. "Yes, you did."

He chuckled lightly. "My dear, haven't you yet learned from your many marriages that you can't take what a man says in the throws of passion to heart?" He almost believed the words himself, stated just flippantly enough not to be cruel. "I was very drunk and I was quite swept off my feet by your many charms. Need I enumerate them?"

Her face gradually darkened as he spoke. When he was done, she stuttered, proving that he had indeed worked her into quite the temper, until finally—"I did nothing to-to make you want to do any of... _that._ "

"Don't assume that I am insulting you. Quite the opposite." He paused. "And to the casual observer, it wouldn't seem that you were all that bothered by any of... _that_?" He asked, testing. Her eyes widened slightly and she stuttered.

Indeed, Hope springs eternal.

"Don't be so vile!" She stated, crossing her arms.

He took a step forward, his heart dancing as he teased further. "I did tell you it would be fun, didn't I?"

Again, her face was flushed, embarrassed and angry because of it—emerald eyes more alert now, having noticed that he had moved closer. He took another step towards her. He hadn't been entirely happy with the way the conversation was going but he was on a more familiar ground now. And perhaps—

"It _was_ fun, wasn't it?" He whispered deviously, a teasing but warm twinkle in his eye. Her glassy eyes took in his demeanor. Even though she was practically as red as her name suggested, he did notice the hint of a smile and a subtle shift of her hips on the bed, try as she might to hide both.

His heart jumped at the sight; all headaches and hangovers and doubt and fear forgotten in an instant.

He crawled back onto the bed, angling himself over her flushed body, marveling that she had not once declared propriety or put on airs. His body buzzed as he glided his hand up the outside of her thigh through the sheet. "I am a gentleman of my word, Mrs. Butler." She shivered and in that moment he could see clearly all of the glorious channels he could follow to reach her. Saw a part of her he could own with absolute certainty. A part that even Ashley Wilkes could never possess.

It wasn't exactly what his heart longed for but it was a beginning. A beginning to winning her heart for his own.

He smiled at the thought as he claimed her lips once again.

* * *

_*Partial quote from Persuasion by JA_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You spoke and so here I am. Delivering :)
> 
> There is one more chapter to come. I am motivated by hearing your thoughts… Is this a ploy to get reviews? Heck. Yes. I have no shame! Lol! And thank you so much to everyone who had such kind things to say about the last chapter.
> 
> Thank you to Elm for going over this for me! You are the absolute best! Also, there is a teeny, tiny reference or two to her fic, "The Bard", which is my favorite GWTW fanfic of all time and I definitely do NOT ever talk about it...all the time. Lol. No one else may notice it but I know it's there and I want to give credit where credit is due!
> 
> Still dedicated to I Dream of Spring, for stroking my vanity enough to inspire me to write. You know what you did! :) Also, thank you for pre-reading and for your input! I can't think of two people I trust more for their fandom insights than you and Elm ;)
> 
> Still not mine and yet I continue to borrow shamelessly from the original. Forgive me, ye copyright gods! 'Tis only for fun.
> 
> See endnotes for trigger warning.*
> 
> Read and Review!

* * *

_To Scarlett, he was still an enigma but an enigma about which she no longer bothered her head. She was convinced that nothing ever pleased him or ever would please him, that he either wanted something badly and didn't have it, or never had wanted anything and so didn't care about anything._

_-Gone with the Wind_

* * *

Rhett and Scarlett were supposed to leave for Atlanta the following day and he had no desire to.

A possessive vice had taken hold of him and he had no desire to share Scarlett with anyone else at present.

_No one._

Not even her own children, irrationally selfish as that may be. Though, he surprised himself with how much he looked forward to taking on the responsibility of caring for the two of them—but no, not even them.

Not now.

Not yet.

He was insatiable and she was pouring into him like honey. And he felt now more than ever before that she could belong to him.

He just needed more time.

They stayed securely shut up in their suite for the rest of the day, until Rhett had reluctantly allowed her to leave the warmth of their marriage bed to bathe and ready herself for supper.

He had no intention of leaving the room unless she expressed a desire to, content to order food be brought to their rooms. So, he had neglected to dress, casually leaned back in a chair, a cigar between his fingers, in nothing more than a dressing robe when she re-entered the room over an hour later, fully dressed and hair coiffed.

Her cheeks had colored prettily when she saw him, all ridiculous bows and ribbons and gaudy accessories. She had spun in a circle, showing off the ostentatious adornments, a coquettish smile on her lips. She batted her eyes.

She was beautiful.

And she knew she was.

He grinned back, wanting to simultaneously goad her and worship her.

The joy he felt squelched the many teasing comments he had instantly devised concerning her awful tastes. He would buy her a train full of hideously decorated dresses if it meant that this serenity between them would last.

He put out the flickering end of his cigar and walked over to her, taking her face gently between his hands. "You look unquestionably affluent, my pretty braggart," he teased—he couldn't help himself—before placing a carefree kiss to the tip of her nose. Perhaps she was content as well because she took no offense to the comment as she may have ordinarily been inclined—or perhaps his lesser-read bride didn't pick up on the meaning of his words. She giggled lightly, a simper on her face that could charm any man under ninety. He released her, putting some distance between them.

He would never get dressed if he didn't.

He'd like to extend their stay in New Orleans for several more weeks but he did have some reservations. Political tensions had been on the rise for months and all the talk amongst his acquaintances while he and Scarlett had been in town had hinted at the unrest soon coming to a head. It had been almost two years since the Riots had taken nearly fifty lives. Since then, despite the institution of Louisiana's contentious new state constitution in April, tempers had only simmered hotly between the newly established Republicans and the ancestral Democrats that now presided within the same territory. A temporary stalemate.

That, of course, had quickly changed when Oscar Dunn had been sworn into office the month before as the first black Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana.

The mounting tension was reaching a boiling point. Rhett didn't want to be anywhere near New Orleans when everything bubbled over.

It was not an ambience that particularly encouraged frivolity and love-making.

Nevertheless, perhaps even a week would be enough—

If it wasn't, he would take her to London. Paris. Wherever she wanted to go.

Rhett brought up the possibility over dinner, as his bride indulged in a rather large crawfish, even to his own eyes.

He brought it up as casually as he could, fully aware that she could reject the idea. He didn't know how he would respond if she did.

She looked up from her heavily laden plate for the first time that night, her eyes wide. "Stay here? In New Orleans?" She said, around a mouthful of cornbread dressing.

He cocked up the corner of his lips, amused and softened by her esurience. "Yes, my little glutton." Her eyes sparked a bit at that. "We have only seen a fraction of what the city has to offer"—as if he would be given to any inclination to show her anything outside of the walls of their hotel room for the remainder of their stay—"and we aren't urgently needed. What's another week?" He stated flippantly, leaning back, eyes never leaving her.

"Oh, Rhett! Could we, really?!" Her face lit up and he released a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I'll make the arrangements." He grinned at her enthusiasm, waving for the waiter. Scarlett listened with great interest as the last course of the night was announced. Rhett watched her, already planning to feign a full stomach and give her his plate as well.

He would give her everything.

* * *

After several plates of pastries, Rhett announced their intent to head back to the hotel. He didn't miss the blush that bloomed on her already rosy cheeks. Something pleasant rolled through him.

In the carriage, Scarlett's hands grasped his coat sleeve as they bounced down the cobblestone road. The combination of the crawfish, a quantity of champagne, two plates of pastries and a...busy day rendered Scarlett unconscious by the time their carriage pulled up to the front of their hotel.

He had no desire to wake her. He wasn't even sure if he could, he thought with some amusement.

He lifted her from the seat, cradling her small frame close to his before making his way through the lobby, beyond caring that this was a scandalous act even in New Orleans.

Upon entering the room, he carried her to the bed and gently laid her on top of the coverlet. He would wake her after a nightcap, to help her out of her stays and that monstrosity of a dress.

Rhett knelt down next to the bed. She looked so young when she slept. One would never guess that she was twice widowed. Or that she had braved the Yankee army with nothing but a pistol, a rickety cart and an aging horse. Or that she was capable enough to stand on her own two little feet in a world made for men. She had fought for so long—

He reached out and stroked the length of her cheek with the tips of his fingers, feeling, again, that resolute sense of purpose: to let her rest.

* * *

It was as he sat by the great window of their suite, nursing his nightcap and enjoying an evening cigar, that he heard the first whimper from the other side of the door. He wondered at it only a moment before Scarlett cried out. Gut clenching, he jumped from his seat.

She was still asleep, tears streaming down her face, sobs breaking on her lips. Eyes wide, he lifted her from the bed, holding her tightly. He murmured comfort softly into her hair.

Rhett knew the moment she awoke, her face burrowed into his chest. Confessions spewed forth. "Oh, Rhett. I was so cold and so hungry and so tired and I couldn't find it. I ran through the mist and I ran but I couldn't find it."

"Find what, honey?"

"I don't know. I wish I did know."

"Is it your old dream?"

"Oh, yes!"

When her broken cries had dwindled to hiccoughs, he gently placed her on the bed, fumbled in the darkness and lit a candle, aware of the relief that light could bring in the wake of a nightmare. Glancing down at her, her eyes fixed on his uncovered chest, his whole being grew warm when she whispered softly, "Hold me, Rhett."

"Darling!" He said swiftly, sweeping her up into his arms again and cradling her close to his heart as he sat down in a large chair across the room.

"Oh, Rhett, it's awful to be hungry." He started a bit at this, only a little surprised that this was the ill that was plaguing her heart at the moment.

He spoke into her hair, his heart clenching. "It must be awful to dream of starvation after a seven-course dinner including that enormous crawfish." He smiled and she pulled back to look at him before continuing.

"Oh, Rhett, I just run and run and hunt and I can't ever find what it is I'm hunting for. It's always hidden in the mist. I know if I could find it, I'd be safe forever and ever and never be cold or hungry again."

He indulged her. "Is it a person or a thing you're hunting?"

"I don't know. I never thought about it." Her glowing, moist eyes bore into his as she spoke. "Rhett, do you think I'll ever dream that I get there to safety?"

"No," he said, smoothing her tumbled hair, gently wiggling free half-loose pins from her sleep-ruffled chignon. "I don't. Dreams aren't like that. But I do think that if you get used to being safe and warm and well fed in your everyday life, you'll stop dreaming that dream. And, Scarlett, I'm going to see that you are safe."

"Rhett, you are so nice."

Her flippant remark pulled him out of the moment and he laughed. "Thanks for the crumbs from your table, Mrs. Dives." Attempting to bring some levity to the conversation, to chase away the fear that still lingered in her eyes, he stated, "Scarlett, I want you to say to yourself every morning when you wake up: 'I can't ever be hungry again and nothing can ever touch me so long as Rhett is here and the United States government holds out.'"

As he had expected, that had caught her attention quite well, pulling her away from the last wisps of the mists that existed in her nightmares. All the time, she pressed her little body into his, her warmth radiating into all the cold places in him.

His love for her blossomed in those moments and he promised her all that her heart desired.

That god-awful house she described? It was hers.

That white elephant in Clayton County? He would mend it back to health if Will couldn't make a go of it.

He promised it all, even as he avoided talk of the mills and her store. Bringing up Ashley Wilkes in any capacity seemed very unappealing to him at the moment. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, she was in his arms and he was surrounded by her smell and her softness and the memory of the night before—

Something tickled his chest.

Scarlett, still reclined against him, cheek against his chest, was tracing her fingers over his scars, transfixed by the faded stretches of mottled skin. Her lips were so close to his skin, the heat from her breath burned him. "You are very generous."

He marveled at her.

And he wondered if she had any idea how completely she owned him. Surely, she couldn't touch him this way without knowing the power she welded? How thoroughly she had entrapped him. Now, more than ever—

He struggled to catch his breath, suddenly wanting to pull away even as she nuzzled closer.

He sucked in a panicked breath, praying to whatever gods there may be that she didn't notice his unexpected unease.

"Come, let's put you to bed." He said softly, he lifted her to carry her to the bed before remembering that she was still encased in all of her frippery. But all thoughts of seduction had vanished at present and he placed her on top of the coverlet as he stated, "I'll call for someone to help you out of your things."

"But, uhm—" Scarlett shifted. "Isn't it very late in the evening?"

He cut her off, her aim too hard to decipher. As hard to decipher as her intentions. "I assure you, my dear. Every lady in waiting has been at attention every moment we have been here. As you mentioned a moment ago: I am very generous. Someone will come." He was grinning but the words were patronizing. They had the effect he desired and expected as her delicate eyebrows came together swiftly and she gracelessly scooted off the bed and away from him. The tightness in his chest eased a bit.

As Rhett predicted, only minutes later, a young girl was there to help Scarlett out of her things. He retreated to the sitting room.

He finished off his nightcap, still sitting on the side table, half empty. It wasn't enough. He needed something stronger than the thin, weak brandy could offer. He still felt tight all over, uncomfortable. It was inexplicable: the compulsion to leave and the desire to stay. The urge to depart was winning, as the tightness in his chest continued to rob him of air.

The girl stepped out of the bedroom, curtsying after he tipped her gratuitously before sending her on her way. He stood there after she left, arms limply by his sides before running his fingers through his hair and slowly making his way towards the lit doorway.

One foot in the room and one foot out, he contemplated his wife's figure, her back facing him. She appeared to be asleep and she was tired enough that she may be. She wouldn't even know he had gone—

She shifted slightly and sighed, an attempt at subtly but so still so blatantly obvious he had to grin.

She cleared her throat. "Rhett?" Her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. There was something he recognized of that perfect defenselessness that had been created between the two of them the night before in that simple summons. His throat constricted.

She had the power to bring him to his knees. He could already feel them weakening.

"Yes?" He answered casually, still firmly planted squarely beneath the door sill.

"Are you...well, that is—I'm going to sleep now." Her body was completely still beneath the covers. He wondered at the comment. He had never been so unsure of her before.

He hoped. He hoped so much—

"Sleep well, my dear. I think I'll step out for a bit. I'll return shortly." He stepped out of the room just as she jumped up from her place under the covers and turned to face him, shocked.

"You're leaving?!" Scarlett rasped. Her eyes were wide, soft and glowing. At odds with her freshly combed hair that surrounded her face like a storm cloud. She was a vision. Tempestuous. Dangerous. In her presence and under her gaze, he felt laid bare as a newborn.

Rhett shoved his hands into his pockets. "Of course! The night is young! I desire stronger fare than that of the disappointing spirits tray which has been graciously provided by the hotel staff. " She continued to stare at him, her jaw slack. Her soft eyes hardened at his words, as he had expected even as he had hoped against it. "Does that bother you?"

She squared her shoulders. "Why should I care where you go or what you do?" She lifted her chin slightly and he wondered if she meant that. Had a sneaking suspicion that she did. Something twisted in him so painfully it was nearly physical as his fears were confirmed.

"That works in my favor. It is a relevant point to know that I may come and go as I please."

"You may! And I am very tired so I shan't wait up for you."

"Indeed. It takes an exorbitant amount of effort to shop improvidently for the majority of the day. You need your rest." He tightened his fists, the cold ache in his chest bleed into something warmer, heavier.

"If I need rest it's because I had to put up with your foolishness—" She stopped, her face flushing furiously.

A pang, sharply felt, made him physically shake. He laughed at her brazenness, now feeling feverish; his limbs heavier. "Forgive me, my pet, if I find that hard to believe after you—"

She threw a pillow at his head. He caught it; his blood heated now.

She was in quite a snit, her eyes blazing, arms crossed over her heaving chest.

Without hesitation, he took three long strides to the bed, lifted her without effort and kissed her fiercely.

She gasped against his lips, immediately falling limp in his arms as he grasped the back of her head, guiding her to his mouth.

Pulling her body flush against him, he gripped her with white knuckles as he drove his hips into hers. His heart was thundering and her breaths were coming in pants against his cheek as he glided his lips down to her neck.

Scarlett curled her arms around his shoulders as he fisted her delicate nightgown, running his hands up and over her waist before sliding a heavy hand over the swell of her breast and she leaned into his touch.

He unceremoniously rolled the fabric of her gown into his fist, coaxing it over her hips before heedlessly slipping his fingers between her legs. She undulated against his fingers and he groaned, wondering at the evidence that she wanted this as desperately as he did. Lust gripped him at the thought.

Wrapping his arms around her, he laid her down roughly over top of the coverlet, freed himself from his clothing before wrenching her forward and brutally burying himself inside of her.

She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. The sound dissolved into a deep moan as he snapped his hips forward, finding a punishing pace.

He took her in, gazing down at her writhing form as he thrust a shaking hand between their bodies, working her upward and toward a mutual pleasure.

She reached for him, pulled him closer to her.

And it almost felt like love.

* * *

In that final week in New Orleans, they settled into a new, precarious rhythm with each other. One that followed them back to Atlanta.

They fought regularly and sometimes viciously before resolving it savagely—first, in their rooms in New Orleans and then in their suite at the National. Petty arguments that were often provoked by the most insignificant judgements or remarks, kindled by Rhett's sharp wit and Scarlett's hot temper.

Scarlett was barbaric, in every conceivable way. She could ravage him with her selfish carelessness and then mend him with her ruthless yearning.

And Rhett flipped continuously between wild hope and unrelenting doubt and despair.

Construction began on the mammoth of a structure Scarlett referred to as a house. A testament to his devotion that would live long after he was gone. A monument to rival that of the Taj Mahal or the newly unveiled Prince Albert Memorial. All equally as ostentatious as the other.

Only Scarlett expected him to live in it.

While he had thought that having these parts of her was enough, holding her body but little else had started to drive a deep bitterness into him that he couldn't shake. One that reared its ugly head in the nastiest of forms and was only intensified by his lack of enthusiasm as he was forced to move into a house that was built like a tomb.

Those feelings of resentment were fashioned into cruel and humiliating taunts and pranks, ones that even he could examine and acknowledge were equivalent to the acts of a school boy with a crush. He threw old insults in her face and claimed her as a "pet". Then there was the incident involving the renaming of her store…

All the while she surrounded herself with the most trying of creatures, flaunting her new wealth and status with her new clan who were _always_ around.

She still visited that damned mill regularly, always a contented smile on her face when she returned.

But every night she was his completely and he simultaneously hated her and loved her in the most exquisite of ways.

A root of jealous displeasure, fed by her giddy happiness and indulgence in the things and people she had surrounded herself with, grew steadily until it became ripe for harvest, ready to be plucked or die.

It was with a final pruning that unsteady resolution, of a kind, was found:

She stormed into the bedroom at twilight and told Rhett that she was going to have a baby.

He was lounging in a silk dressing gown in a cloud of smoke and his eyes went sharply to her face as she spoke. He said nothing, processing the notion that he was to be a father.

For a naive moment he was surprised, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. Of course he was very aware of how babies were made. It wasn't that he was in disbelief of the result of the many restless and consuming nights they had shared. Truthfully, he had simply been preoccupied with other things to have ever pondered the possibility. Yet, here it was.

He watched her in silence and he waited with bated breath for her next words.

She didn't speak but dissolved into a sobbing mess, falling into a heap on the bed.

He deflated and simply watched her sob, unable to comfort her but also unable to throw barbs or make jokes in an attempt to ease the festering infection of mislaid illusions.

"Indeed?" He managed, taking another pull from his cigar.

"Oh, don't sit there and laugh! Mother of God! Every time things are going right with me I have to have a baby."

Disillusionment gave way to anger as he interpreted her meaning. "Well, seeing as you don't want it, perhaps we can give it to Miss Melly. Didn't you tell me she was so misguided as to want another baby?"

She sat up from her recline on the bed, eyes wide with indignation and despair. "Oh, you hateful thing!" She cried, tears streaking through that ridiculous rogue she caked on her face. "It's easy for you to make jokes when you're not the one who has to carry it and birth it and have your figure ruined and your life interrupted by it!"

"Quite right, it would seem there is very little interruption to my life in light of these revelations. In that case, allow me to display my unanimity by consuming an extra pastry or two a night to encourage _esprit de corps_."

"Why must you make everything a joke?!"

"As you say, I suppose it's easy to do considering how very little it affects me."

"Oh," she cried loudly, jumping up from her place on the bed. "I could kill you! I—I simply won't have it!" Her eyes were wild. "There are things to do. I'm not the stupid country fool I used to be. Now, I know that a woman doesn't have to have children if she doesn't want them! There are things—"

Terror seized him and he immediately went to her, grasping her wrist in a steely hold.

"Scarlett, you fool, tell me the truth! You haven't done anything?"

She simply gaped at him, frozen in place, her jaw slack.

"Damn it, Scarlett! Answer me!"

"N-no, I haven't."

Relief flooded his veins. "Where did you get this idea? Who's been telling you things?"

"Mamie Bart—she—"

"The madam of a whore house would know such tricks. That woman never puts foot in this house again, do you understand? After all, it is my house and I'm the master of it. I do not even want you to speak to her again." He ran his free hand through his hair, feeling shaken and overcome with repressed memory. Scarlett stared down at his hand wrapped around her wrist. "And what exactly did she say to you?"

"Nothing really. Just that there are things—"

He interrupted, too impatient to wait for her to get to the point. "Did she say anything else?"

"No," said Scarlett reluctantly. "No, she just said it would fix things up fine."

"By God, I will kill her!" cried Rhett. He looked down into Scarlett's tear-stained face and some of the wrath faded. He picked her up in his arms and sat down in the chair, holding her close to him, tightly, fearing that she would get away from him.

He spoke to her again. His voice was deep and fierce but no longer angry. "I don't care whether you have one child or twenty, but I do care if you die."

"Die? Me? What—?"

"Yes, die. I don't suppose Mamie Bart told you the chances a woman takes when she does a thing like that?"

"No, I...I would not have—" She stopped, tugging at his collar.

He took a deep breath, relieved. "Listen, my baby, I won't have you take your life in your hands. Do you hear? Good God, I don't want children any more than you do, but I can support them. I don't want to hear any more foolishness out of you."

"But Rhett, what—?"

"I saw a girl die that way once. In New Orleans—oh, years ago. I was young and impressionable." He bent his head suddenly and buried his lips in her hair. "It's not an easy way to die."

"Oh—" She pulled back, her mouth round with surprise. Rhett watched her, mystified by the gentleness with which she examined him. Unexpectedly, she placed both of her hands on the sides of his face. "Oh, darling! I—" Rhett's eyes snapped to hers so violently that she paused, blushing. "I—I don't know why I said that. I didn't know...I—" She whispered, trailing off before looking away.

Rhett couldn't make sense of it. She had referred to him with a term of endearment reserved for lovers, had caressed the word with her lips as tenderly as she presently caressed his cheek. He couldn't attend to anything else at present.

Slowly, as if some part of him were afraid she would run if he moved to quickly, he slid his own hands over hers, still resting against his cheeks, grasping one and gently pulling it to his lips, tenderly kissing her palm—once, twice—before replying softly, "Not to worry, my love. Don't think on it again."

Her eyes were on him again and he found himself unable to resist the impulse to reach down and gently place his hand against her abdomen. "You'll have your baby, Scarlett. If I have to handcuff you to my wrist for the next nine months." He smiled kindly at her, in an attempt to lessen the heaviness of the declaration. Nevertheless, his intent was evident, that he would do just that if necessary.

"Do I mean so much to you?"

Initially, Rhett felt the urge to laugh bitterly at her question. Her obvious attempt to trifle with him.

But she looked down, her eyes still glassy with tears. He had a fleeting thought: what had he done that she should ask this question in earnest?

Rhett tilted her chin, examining her expression. As was becoming more common as of late, he struggled to read her. He leaned down, gently capturing her lips with his own.

Hoping against hope that it was enough.

* * *

Eugenie Victoria was born on a sunshiny and joyful afternoon amid people running in and out of the house and up and down the stairs. Rhett had been startled awake that morning by a sharp shout. Shooting up from the bed, he had found his wife, having been roused by the need to relieve herself, standing in a puddle of fluid.

While waiting for Melanie and the doctor to arrive, he had been permitted to hold her and sit with her and comfort her, in spite of Mammy's indignation, as it became more apparent that their child was soon to greet the world. Once Dr. Meade and Melanie had arrived, he had been reluctantly relegated to the sitting room. He had gradually graduated to the hallway directly outside of her room as her cries became louder and more frequent. On more than one occasion he'd had to fight the urge to burst through the door. After some time, when lunch was long past and the sun had settled deeper into the trees, there was sudden silence behind the door.

He didn't breathe.

A tiny wail broke the stillness and Rhett braced against the wall to steady himself.

When he was finally permitted to enter the room, he gazed down at the baby on Mammy's lap. The most beautiful creature that he had ever laid eyes on.

And everything he had ever done and everything he would ever do became clear.

* * *

"Oh, Rhett! She really is a beautiful baby, isn't she?" Scarlett gazed upon the newborn with a tenderness that surprised him.

"The most beautiful I've ever seen." He leaned over Scarlett's shoulder, studying the infant.

"Truly, I've never seen a baby with so much curly hair right when—well, right from the beginning." Her cheeks darkened a bit.

"Indeed, and such clear and focused eyes. I'm certain she is able to understand every word we are saying." He leaned closer to the babe, cooing. "You do understand, don't you angel?"

Scarlett laughed with real joy. "Oh, you are making a fool of yourself. You sound ridiculous!" Her eyes returned to the bundle in her arms.

"Yes, well you would think so." He replied with good humor before gently taking the baby from her. He stroked her back, bounced her up and down gently as she protested leaving her mother's arms. "The reason is that she's the first person who's ever belonged utterly to me."

Scarlett stared at him, aghast. "She belongs to me, too!"

"No, you have two other children. She's mine."

"Great balls of fire!" She stated over his quiet laughter. "I had the baby, didn't I?" She batted her eyes. "Besides, honey, I belong to you."

Rhett looked at her over the black head of the child and eyed her curiously.

"Do you, my dear?"

She smiled back but it didn't reach her eyes and she looked down, her hands wrapped around the sheet.

Rhett studied her with intense interest, wondering at her reaction.

Before he could dig further into her flippant claim, a knock on the door announced Melanie Wilkes' presence. Melanie eagerly came over and Rhett offered the infant to her, knowing without being told her desire. "We were just discussing how beautiful my daughter is." He stated.

"Our daughter!" Scarlett hotly but without venom.

Rhett ignored her. "Her eyes are going to be pea green."

"Indeed they are not," cried Melanie indignantly, forgetting that Scarlett's eyes were almost that shade. Scarlett only seemed put out by Melanie's insistence for a moment before Melanie elaborated. "They are going to be blue, like Mr. O'Hara's eyes, as blue as—as blue as the bonnie blue flag."

Scarlett's eyes were veiled with memory before abruptly lighting up. "Bonnie Blue Butler!" Scarlett exclaimed and Rhett laughed, peering more closely into the small eyes before looking back into the delighted eyes of his wife.

He had never felt such a sense of well being and contentment.

And Bonnie she became until even her parents did not recall that she had been named for two queens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There is some mention of 1870s politics. Please understand that I attempted to keep everything as neutral as possible. I think that we can all agree that as much as we all love GWTW, the social and political themes are disturbing at best and downright despicable at worst. Please don't flame me for attempting to keep the tiniest bit of historical accuracy. I find it all despicable as well.


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